Angels and Nazis
by Kittystitch
Summary: It started out as an easy, routine mission to deliver new codes to French partisans. It didn't stay routine for long.
1. Chapter 1

(Author's note: This story heavily references my earlier stories, "Choices", "Sofia", and "Talismans". It would be helpful to read those first.)

 **Angels and Nazis**

 **Chapter 1**

 _Chief was sure that the shadowy face in front of him was someone he knew, someone he was suppose to be wary of. The features were half hidden, distorted and blurry. The name floated at the edge of his memory, slithering out of reach each time his mind tried to grasp it. The voice echoed from some distant dark depth, garbled and unrecognizable, on fetid breath that reeked of hate and decay. The shadow gripped his switchblade tightly, pressing it against his side, beneath his ribs, pricking his bare skin. Chief was paralyzed, unable even to twitch a muscle. But it didn't bother him. It seemed absurdly more important to identify his attacker than to defend himself._

 _Slowly, smoothly, the razor-keen blade slid through his skin, penetrating muscle and tissue. He puzzled at the lack of pain. He could feel every inch of the slick steel pushing up beneath his ribs, but it only felt cold and alien. Then his ghostly attacker pushed harder, twisting, ripping open something vital. Wet, sticky warmth gushed down his side. Panic enveloped him in a tidal wave. He tried to draw a breath, gasped, and choked on his own blood..._

...and he bolted upright, slamming back into the wooden wall behind him, his blade clenched in his right hand, where it belonged. The spectral form of his assailant dissolved like mist on the wind. Out of the pre-dawn dimness, the vague outlines of the room's sparse furniture took shape. He swiped his shirt sleeve across his mouth, wiping away clammy sweat, and took deep breaths to slow his thudding heart.

"Hey, Chiefy." Goniff's familiar accent emerged from the gloom of the far corner. "Ya a'right, mate?"

He took a couple more breaths before finding his voice. "Yeah. Fine."

Cot springs squeaked as Goniff sat up. "Coor, those ruddy nightmares'll get ya every time."

Chief rubbed at the tender spot beneath his ribs, and the fleeting chill of cold steel shuddered through him. He reached down and ran his hand over the thin mattress, half expecting to find a pool of blood. He found only the sharp spike of a broken spring poking up through the thread-bare ticking.

At the click of the door latch, Chief startled. Garrison stepped in, closing the door quietly behind him. He struck a match and lit the oil lamp on the low table, bringing the tiny attic room into sharp focus. "Let's get started. We need to make Tours by sunset. Actor and Casino should already be there."

Chief squinted in the sudden stark glare of the lamp.

"Chief?"

He realized he was still pressed back hard against the rough wall, his knuckles white on the handle of his knife. He mentally shook off the lingering web of nightmare and folded the blade. "Yeah, I heard ya. Tours by sunset."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

They'd made good time hiking the back roads, even though the day was hot and sticky. They'd stopped a couple of times in the shade by the side of the road, to catch their breath and cool off, but there was still enough time to stop at the Prideaux farm, and still make Tours before dark.

Garrison slowed to let Goniff catch up to him. "The turn off is just around the next bend," he assured the pickpocket.

Goniff fell into step next to him, wiping his face with his shirt tail. "So this Prideaux bloke is the local Maquis big wig, is he?"

"He operates a safe house. The Resistance smuggles downed flyers and escaped prisoners through here, on their way to the coast. We need to give him the new codes."

"A tricky business, in'it, standin' up to the Nazis."

"Tricky. And deadly." Garrison wondered if it was something he could do day after day, month after month, under unbearable hardships, never getting a chance to take a break, eat a good meal, read a book. As much as he hated the hours spent at his desk back at the mansion, and the never-ending stream of paper work, he knew that to most fighting this war, those hours of not having to watch your back or fear for your life would be a luxury.

He set aside that troubling thought and turned to another. He'd sensed an uneasy tension in Chief this morning, so he'd given him a focus and some solitude, sending him to scout the road ahead. Now he turned to Goniff, who was often a good source for the inner workings of the team. "Does Chief seem a little on edge to you today?"

"Ya mean more than our usual edgy Chiefy?" Goniff kicked at a rock as he walked, sending it skidding into the roadside weeds. "Yeah, he 'ad one a 'is nightmares last night. Ya know how they can throw a spanner into yer whole day sometimes."

He did know. All too well.

As they rounded the curve in the road, he could see Chief up ahead, at the turnoff to the Prideaux place. He'd stepped off the road, into the shade of an old elm, and leaned against the trunk, looking like he was waiting for a lift into town.

Chief pushed away from the tree as they approached, and scuffed the toe of his boot at tire tracks in the dirt lane. "They had company. A car, two motorcycles. German."

Garrison stooped for a closer look, and pinched up some of the dirt, as if feeling it between his fingers would help.

"Came in from the west, turned back that way when they left," Chief added.

Goniff was skeptical. "You can tell all that from a few ruts in the dirt?"

Garrison stood, brushing the dust from his hands. "From the pattern, how deep they are, how they curve," he explained. Then he looked back at Chief. "How long ago?"

"Yesterday, I reckon."

Garrison was impressed. That had been his guess, too. Chief may have learned some game tracking skills as a kid on the reservation, but the rest he'd picked up recently and quickly, just from observing and assessing.

Garrison pulled his pistol from his waist band under his shirt, and although he knew he didn't have to warn them, he had to say it anyway. "Look sharp. We don't know what happened here."

They moved quietly and slowly through the neglected and overgrown apple orchard that bordered the dirt track, fragrant with last year's crop rotting on the ground. A quarter mile along, they approached the farm yard, partially visible through the apple trees and undergrowth. Away from the small, neat house, close to the tree line, someone had started digging a hole. A large one, and deep. A mound of dirt, still dark and damp, was piled next to it, and a rusted shovel lay discarded on the ground. In the middle of the yard, two smaller mounds were carefully covered with patchwork quilts, pieces of firewood anchoring down the edges and corners.

Garrison moved in behind a tree, barely breathing. The others followed his lead, Chief behind a tree to his right, Goniff to his left behind the wood pile. Nothing stirred but buzzing insects. Garrison felt a bead of sweat crawl down between his shoulder blades. Even the breeze had died in the heat of the early afternoon.

He couldn't see any immediate threat, so he called out the contact phrase. "Claude, is there a storm coming?"

The shot made him flinch. The bullet kicked up dirt two feet to his left.

Goniff immediately raised his pistol, trained on the farm house.

"No! Don't shoot," Garrison hissed.

Goniff gave him a quizzical look, but lowered his weapon.

He tried again. "Claude? We're here to help."

Silence hung in the air like the thick, fragrant heat.

"Claude..?"

"Do not come any closer." The girl's voice tried to sound commanding although it cracked slightly. "I will shoot you," she added as an afterthought.

She had to be the Prideaux's eighteen year old daughter. And those two quilt-covered mounds were probably her parents. "Elise? I'm Craig Garrison. Remember me? I was here about a year and a half ago, meeting with your father and his friends."

Again the silence fell. Bees hummed among the decaying apples, and a crow called somewhere in the distance.

"She ain't alone, Warden," Chief whispered.

"How many?"

"Just one, I judge."

Garrison called again, "Elise, tell me what happened."

This time a man's voice answered, an American. "Lieutenant Garrison? Is Rainy with you?"

gg gg gg gg gg gg

The open window where Chief sat did little to cool off the front room of the farmhouse. The day's walk and then the hard work of digging the graves had worn the sharp edges off of the nightmare, but a thin wisp of uneasiness still persisted, like an unpleasant smell he couldn't quite identify, as if the faceless specter was just out of sight.

With the point of his blade, he scratched at the trickle of sweat that ran down the side of his face, and watched the girl out in the yard, kneeling next to the fresh graves of her parents. Did she really believe they were now together and happy in some paradise in the sky, still watching out for her? He supposed it made her feel safer, gave her strength and hope. Whatever worked.

"When the tunnel collapsed, my leg got pinned." Marty Gomez limped over to the dining table to join Garrison and Goniff, and eased himself into a chair. "I really don't remember how I got out of there. Pete and some of the others said they carried me. I woke up at a farm near Lunéville. The others left me there since I couldn't walk. Hey, Rainy, did you get my medicine pouch? Pete said he'd try to get it to the Red Cross."

Chief turned from the window and let the curtain drop. "Yeah, I got it."

"I just thought that if I didn't make it, that you could..." Marty's eyes held his briefly, but he didn't complete the thought, and turned back to Garrison. "Anyway, once I could get around, the Resistance got me this far. I've been here a few weeks, trying to help out, ya know..." He paused and took a breath. "Thanks for finishing the digging. It woulda taken Elise and me days."

Garrison finished off the water in the glass in front of him. "What happened?"

"I wish I could tell ya. Claude came back from town yesterday afternoon all in a panic, goin' on about the Gestapo and a leak or somethin', and he hustled me and Elise into the root cellar. Then we heard the shooting." Marty took a gulp of his own water and stared down at his hands, his voice going quiet. "They executed them. Just shot them in cold blood."

When the door swung open, they all turned as Elise came inside. Her bare knees were smudged with mud, and her eyes were rimmed in red, but she brushed the loose strands of hair out of her face, straightened her shoulders, and managed a smile. "Lieutenant, you will stay the night, yes?"

"We really can't..."

"I will not hear of it. It is still several hour's walk to Tours, and it will be dark soon. You will eat with us."

Again, Garrison opened his mouth to protest, but Elise cut him off, bustling to the stove to begin dinner. "I insist. The garden is good this year, and Marty shot a rabbit yesterday."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Though not plentiful, the meal was delicious, the most substantial they'd had since landing in France a week ago. They'd eaten slowly, savoring the herb-rich stew and fresh bread, and talked about everything but the war. As they lingered over glasses of cold hard cider, Elise recounted childhood stories of raising chickens and goats, and stories about her parents. The Warden had said she was eighteen, but to Chief she seemed much older. She was thin and tall, her long, dark hair pulled back into a messy bun at the back of her neck. Although she'd just buried her brutally murdered mother and father, she could still talk about them with humor and affection. She must really believe they're in a better place than that hole in the ground out in the yard.

Finally, Elise pushed her plate away, and picking up the pitcher of cider, she refilled everyone's glass. "There is something happening in Tours, Lieutenant."

Garrison sat a little straighter. "Like what?"

"Many people are being arrested. Or just disappearing. Some I know are involved in resistance activities, and perhaps they got careless. But many are innocent, just trying to survive, and they are taken away by the Boche for no reason."

"And your parents were caught up in that?"

"They must've been." Elise twisted her napkin in her hands, the first sign of anger Chief had seen from her. Her voice rose a notch. "Papa was a good collaborateur. He played the part very well. They had no reason to suspect him of anything."

"You think there's a traitor in the Resistance?"

Marty took one of Elise's hands in his and squeezed gently. "That's the only thing we can think of, Lieutenant. Someone squealed on him. But we have no idea who. I need to get Elise away from here. It's not safe for her anymore."

"It's not safe for either of you," Garrison added. "We're meeting the rest of my team in Tours, then heading back to the coast. Come with us..."

"No." Elise pulled her hand from Marty's and stood abruptly. "I am not leaving. I will continue what Papa started."

Chief fully expected the Warden to argue with her, explain to her that the middle of the war in France was no place for a girl, and she'd be safe and cared for in England. Instead Garrison sat back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. Finally, he said, "Alright, here's what you need to do. There's a partisan camp in the hills south of here. They're having some success hitting rail lines and supply dumps, and they can always use help. We'll take you there, and I'll introduce you." Garrison pinned Marty with a hard glare. "It'll be a hike. Think you can make it?"

Marty grinned up at Elise, but he answered Garrison. "We'll make it, Lieutenant."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Something woke him. A small critter scurrying in a corner, or a twig hitting the roof. It was still pitch black, but from his pallet of worn blankets on the floor under the window, Chief could just make out Garrison's white shirt across the room, where the Lieutenant slept on his own blanket. The Warden had taken the first watch, so Goniff must be outside now, struggling to stay awake. He'd had more than his share of the cider.

Making sure his knife was in place, and shoving his pistol into his belt, Chief rose silently and slipped out the door. A half moon moved from behind a cloud, revealing Goniff sitting in an old rocking chair at the far end of the porch. He sat up and rocked forward at the sound of the door.

"My turn," Chief told him.

"Really? Already?" The rocker squeaked as Goniff rose and stretched. "If you say so, mate. I'm knackered, so I ain't gonna argue with you."

When the door closed behind Goniff, Chief stepped off the porch and headed for the wood pile at the edge of the yard. It was just high enough for him to sit comfortably with a knee pulled up in front of him, leaning against the tree that supported one end of the stack. He snapped out the knife and picked up a chunk of tree branch to whittle on as he waited and watched.

From here he had a good view of the whole yard and of the dirt lane leading back to the road. One of the crude wooden crosses that Marty had nailed together was tilting to the left in the still soft and settling dirt of the graves. In the dimness of the moon shadows, it gave the yard the look of a haunted cemetery. He used to wonder at his Navajo grandfather's fear of the dead. Now it just seemed silly. Now he knew death. The two people in those graves were just rotting corpses, no matter how hard the girl prayed.

Chief judged that several hours had passed as he sat quietly, alert to the darkness, vigilant for unnatural sounds. All of the nightlife had finished their foraging, leaving that eerie silence that always closed in before the sky began to brighten. He'd carved the chunk of wood into a thin spike as he'd watched the moon shadows of the crosses shift across the graves. It was probably later than he'd thought, and the Warden would want to get on the road soon.

He glanced up as the door squeaked open and a pale wedge of light sliced across the porch. Marty closed the door behind him and crossed the yard, his hands in his pockets. His limp was pronounced, but it didn't seem to bother him.

Marty stiffly eased himself onto the tree stump that served as a chopping block. "Elise is fixing some breakfast. The Lieutenant wants to get started before it gets too hot."

"That's the Warden." Chief spit out the splinter of wood he'd been chewing. "Can't waste any daylight."

"The nuns were right."

Chief frowned at him.

Marty avoided his eyes, looking down at the ground. "Goniff told me. You're both convicts."

"What of it?""

"Nothing," Marty shrugged. "I was just wondering...what'd you do to end up in prison?"

"You name it..."

"Rainy, you're not a killer."

"Tell that to the Krauts."

"That's different."

Chief almost laughed. "Yeah, maybe..."

In the silence, small sounds came from the house...pans rattling, Goniff laughing. Normal, everyday sounds of early morning. In the woods, the birds began their morning chorus. Finally, Marty asked, "Did you bring my medicine pouch with you?"

"Why the hell would I do that? I thought you were dead."

"I dunno. I thought maybe... It's okay. I started a new one." From under his shirt, Marty pulled a small bag hanging from the chain that once had held his dog tags. "I made it from a scrap of parachute silk."

"Why? Ain't like the old one did ya any good."

"It makes me feel safe. Protected, ya know? Like something greater than me is in control."

"Whatever's in control's doin' a hell of a job."

Marty ignored his cynicism and reverently rubbed the small pouch between his fingers. "You had a medicine pouch once. You used to believe in its power."

"We were kids, Chishi. It was a game." Chief tossed the whittled stick into the orchard. "That sack of junk ain't gonna keep you safe any more than her fancy words are gonna bring back her parents."

"Ya gotta believe in somethin'..."

"I believe in this." He snapped the blade open with a sharp click. "And that Army officer in there, and that slippery little Brit. And those two guys waitin' for us in Tours. That's what keeps me alive."

Marty stood, about to say something else, but Garrison's voice from the porch cut him off. "Let's get moving, guys. The sun'll be up soon."

Chief rose, shoved the blade back into its sheath, and pushed past Marty, heading for the house.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

There was an advantage to working with Actor. Even in a city as devastated as Tours, the conman was always able to find the most comfortable accommodations and the best food. And the good wine. As long as Casino kept his mouth shut within ear shot of strangers, letting Actor speak his perfect French for both of them, he wasn't above enjoying all the amenities that Actor could provide.

Accommodations this time were supplied by Madame Jacquard, the proprietress of Actor's favorite bordello in the region. Casino was looking forward to another night in the large, cloud-soft bed in the room at the top of the grand staircase, accompanied by sweet, warm little Josette. He wasn't as exhausted as he had been last night, so he was anticipating being able to give her all the attention she deserved.

Tonight's dinner had even included roast beef, a rare luxury these days. Madame Jacquard had assured them that it was a gift from an appreciative Wehrmacht General, and she had no qualms about sharing it with them - just one of her quiet little acts of defiance. She and two of her girls had just disappeared through the kitchen door with the dirty dishes, leaving him and Actor alone at the ornately carved mahogany dining table.

Casino pushed his chair back and sighed contentedly, taking a sip from the delicate crystal goblet. Was this the third bottle of Bordeaux or the fourth? "I wonder where Garrison and the guys have been spendin' their nights."

Actor lit a match and held it to the bowl of his pipe, drawing flame through the fragrant tobacco. "They should have left Montrichard yesterday. The plan was for them to be here by this evening."

"Yeah, but I bet they ain't had feather beds and dames." Casino lit his own cigarette and inhaled deeply, then let the smoke out slowly. "The Warden probably had those two jokers sleepin' on the ground and eatin' hardtack."

Actor merely raised an eyebrow and opened his newspaper, giving it a noisy shake, a sure sign that he was in no mood for small talk.

Draining the last of the wine from his glass, Casino examined the elegantly appointed dining room, with its highly polished sideboard, thick brocade curtains, and matching flocked wallpaper. "I wonder if they got any brandy stashed somewhere."

"Don't you think you've had enough for one night? We still have work to attend to in the morning."

"Nah, I'm good. It's just wine." Rather than get up from the comfortable chair and search for something else, Casino picked up the bottle and emptied the rest of the rich red liquid into his glass. "Really good wine."

"As if you would know."

"Hey, I've had enough of the rot gut stuff to know the difference."

Actor huffed dismissively from behind his paper and kept reading. But the wine was glowing warm in Casino's stomach and relaxing tense muscles. He knocked his cigarette ash carefully into the silver ashtray. "Madame Jacquard does okay for herself here. Probably does a good trade with the Nazis, right? I bet she knows a lot of secrets."

It was like talking to a wall, but he continued anyway. "And the girls, too, if they speak German. Josette does. And pretty good English, too. I'm tryin' to teach her some of the bedroom Italiano that..." Damn, there was a thought that could kill a good buzz.

Sofia had hardly crossed his mind in weeks. Sofia, with the dark, sparking eyes, warm, silky skin, and sweet little accent. He looked over at Actor, still hidden behind his newspaper. Maybe this was a good time to get some answers. He blurted it out before he could change his mind. "Did you sleep with her?"

The paper dropped. "Who? Josette?"

"No, stupid, Sofia. On that mission to Brussels. Did you sleep with her?"

Actor's eyes narrowed as he relit his pipe and took a couple of puffs. Finally, he looked Casino in the eye. "It was a mission. We worked together as professional colleagues."

"Yeah, right..."

"Believe what you wish, Casino." Actor folded his paper and rose from his chair. "I am going to retire for the evening. I suggest you do the same."

Casino watched Actor's broad back as he strode from the dining room through the wide archway and disappeared up the staircase. Was that a yes or a no? He knew he'd never get a straight answer from the conman. Shit, it wasn't important anymore anyway. There was a reason he hadn't thought of Sofia in weeks. He'd moved on just like she had. He crushed out his cigarette, gulped down the remainder of his wine, and followed Actor up the stairs, replacing thoughts of Sofia with visions of that warm, soft bed and warm, yielding Josette. When the Warden and the guys got here, they could get their own dames.

gg gg gg gg gg gg


	2. Chapter 2

Casino let the curtain fall back over the window and paced another lap of the cozy parlor. He hadn't gotten much sleep the last two nights, waking at every sound in the night that might announce Garrison and the guys finally arriving. Josette had been a welcome distraction, but when his restlessness kept waking her, she finally got up and left. By the time the sun came up on this, their third morning at Madame Jacquard's, there was still no sign of them. Fluid schedules were one thing, but the Warden was now almost two days late, and that wasn't like him.

There were only so many games of solitaire he could play. He'd tried teaching Josette to play poker, and she'd humored him for a while, until she got bored and moved on to more interesting pursuits. He'd repaired a broken lock on one of the upstairs rooms for Madame Jacquard, and given her Bugatti the best tune-up he could without the right tools. It was a sweet ride, and he would have taken it for a spin if gasoline hadn't been in such tight supply - and if there weren't Kraut road blocks everywhere. Out in the back garden, he split some firewood for the house's numerous marble fireplaces, and he'd given his handgun a thorough cleaning. But the later it got, the more disturbing the scenes in his head became.

In his fourth or fifth circuit of the parlor, he paused at the mantle to take a cigarette from the pack. It was his last one. He vented some of his frustration by wadding the empty pack into a tight ball and heaving it into the fireplace.

Across the room, Actor vented some of his own frustration, slamming his book shut and dropping it onto the coffee table. "If you don't stop pacing and sit down, Casino, I'm going to tie you to the chair."

"So what if they never show up, and we never hear anything?" Casino collapsed into the overstuffed chair on the other side of the coffee table, not so much because he believed Actor would make good on his threat, but because it was something different to do besides pace or stare out the window. "They don't have a clue what's going on here. They're just walking right into it blind."

"We need to trust the Lieutenant's instincts. He doesn't walk into anything blindly."

"So how long do we wait?"

"It's only been two days. I think we should at least give them a few more hours before we start planning their funerals."

"Sure, go ahead, joke all you want. I ain't gonna relax till they get here."

From the dining room across the hall, Madam Jacquard floated into the parlor, dressed in a stylish dark grey business suit, nicely tailored to show off her alluring curves. "Messieurs, I thought you might like some fresh coffee and some macaroons."

Actor rose and took the tray from her, setting it on the coffee table. "That's very kind of you, Simone. Merci. I hope you didn't go to any trouble."

"Certainement pas. Our chef, Remy, has been busy in the kitchen this morning. Please, enjoy. If your compatriots arrive, I will show them in."

"Yeah, if they arrive..." Casino huffed.

Actor shot him a narrow-eyed glare before turning his smile back to Madame Jacquard. "Merci, Simone. Please excuse my companion. He is merely concerned for their safety."

"As he should be." She gave Actor a gentle pat on the cheek before turning to leave. "I will be in my office if you need anything."

"Here, entertain yourself." Actor tossed a magazine into his lap - a well-thumbed copy of _La Vie Parisienne_ , with a color illustration of an enticing, half-naked young woman on the cover.

"I can't read French."

"With that magazine, you don't need to read." Settling back onto the divan, Actor retrieved his book.

Casino poured himself a cup of coffee, munched on a cookie, and flipped through the magazine. Twice. The pictures were definitely captivating. He even challenged himself to translate some of the more straightforward captions. But every time he looked at his watch, it was only ten minutes later than the last time he'd looked.

He was about to start his third inspection of the pictures when the sound of Madame Jacquard coming back through the archway caught his attention. Following close behind her were Garrison, Chief and Goniff. They were scruffy and dirty, but no one seemed to be bleeding. A dark weight lifted from his shoulders.

"These ragamuffins came begging at our back door," the Madame smiled.

Actor rose from the divan. "Well, look what the cat dragged in."

"It's about time," Casino exclaimed without getting up.

Goniff headed straight for the plate of cookies like a hound on the scent, snatching up several. "What have we here, then? High tea?"

Chief crossed to the chair next to Casino and dropped into it, immediately stretching out his legs and resting his boots on the table.

Casino kicked Chief's feet to the floor. "Hey, babe, this is a classy joint. What, were you raised in a barn or something?" Then he chuckled at his own humor. "Yeah, I guess you were."

Chief just glared at him.

"Sorry we're late," Garrison apologized. "We got sidetracked. Were you able to make all your deliveries?"

"We completed all the deliveries, but we did run into a problem. You might have noticed the heavy security presence."

"Yeah, we noticed." Garrison described the bloody scene they'd found at their last stop and the side trip into the hills that had delayed them. "Elise Prideaux thinks there's a snitch somewhere in the ranks."

"So does Jacques," Actor added. "He mentioned a newcomer who arrived several months ago from Paris, who now has a position inside Nazi headquarters."

Garrison combed a hand through his disheveled hair. "Maybe I should go have a talk with Jacques."

"Ah, c'mon, Warden," Goniff complained through a mouthful of cookie. "We've been dodging the Krauts for a week. It's time to go home."

Garrison ignored him, and put an arm around the Madame's shoulders. "Simone, do you have a runner who could get a message to him for me?"

"Bien sûr, chéri." She looped her arm around the Warden's waist and returned the embrace. "And you must be hungry. I will have Remy prepare some lunch."

"Merci, Simone." Garrison gave her a smile and a brief squeeze.

As the Madame turned and left, Casino couldn't help but notice Actor's raised eyebrow and the look he exchanged with Garrison. Just as he'd figured. Actor had a thing for the Madame. It might be interesting to see how this played out.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Lunch had been finger sandwiches, a rich vegetable soup, and fresh fruit, with a selection of teas and coffee, all served on bone china and white linen, around the long mahogany dining table. Chief savored the remains of the rich, strong coffee, and checked out the oil portraits in elaborate gilded frames adorning the walls, and the antiques gracing the sideboard and bookcases. This was like the mansion back home, only neater and shinier. The French sure knew how to do a whorehouse. This one was obviously patronized by Nazis with big appetites and more money than self-control.

The girls doing double duty as waitresses were nice, too. Apparently Casino had already picked himself out a pixyish little blonde that he couldn't keep his hands off of. Chief leaned back in his chair, looking past Casino, and appreciated the sway of her nicely rounded backside as she retreated into the kitchen with a tray of dishes, as much to goad a reaction out of Casino as to admire the view.

Casino swatted him on the arm. "Hey, look but don't touch. Get your own dame."

Before lunch, Garrison had written out a coded message, and Madame Jacquard had given it to a street urchin to deliver to the Maquis leader. With the meal now completed and all but the coffee cups cleared, the Warden leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table, and took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. "Jacques's an old hand at this game. If he wants our help, we'll give it to him."

"But the sub ain't gonna wait..." Goniff tried again to protest.

"The sub's already gone," Garrison reminded him. "We'll see what Jacques has to say before we radio for another pickup."

They all looked up as the kitchen door swung open, and Madame Jacquard entered, guiding the young courier in front of her. A faded, stained plaid shirt hung from the kid's skinny shoulders, and frayed pants legs dragged on the floor. A ragged fedora was pulled down tight over greasy black hair that looked like it had been hacked off with a kitchen knife. The brim shaded large, intelligent eyes in what might have been a handsome face, had it not been smudged with dirt. The Madame gave the kid a word of encouragement and a gentle push toward Garrison.

"Monsieur, five o'clock tonight, at the butcher shop," the kid told him.

At the sound of the voice, Chief looked up, really seeing the kid for the first time. She was a girl.

Next to him, Casino exclaimed, "Well, I'll be damned."

She couldn't be more than thirteen or fourteen, Chief judged, as her dark eyes flicked over all of them, assessing each carefully. Her eyes narrowed as they locked with his for a brief moment, her head tilted slightly. The spell was broken when Madame Jacquard spoke to her and shooed her away, back toward the kitchen.

"Startin' 'em a little young, ain't ya?" Casino chuckled.

The barest flash in the Madame's eyes was all that betrayed her disapproval of Casino's remark. "Nico is a child of the streets," she explained. "I try to teach her to take care of herself. At least she knows she can always get a good meal and a warm bed here when she wants."

"But you send her out to run messages for the Resistance?" Goniff asked. "Ain't that kinda dangerous for a little girl?"

"She is no more a little girl than I am, Monsieur. We all do what we must in these times. The Germans treat them as vermin, but otherwise pay no attention to them. She and her gang are perfect couriers."

"She speaks very good English," Actor noted.

"And German. I said she is an orphan, not stupid."

Garrison pushed away from the table and stood, putting an end to the discussion. "Let's get some rest while we can. Casino, you'll come with me to talk to Jacques tonight."

"I would be more than happy to accompany you, Warden," Actor offered. "My language skills might be more prudent and useful."

Garrison smiled. "Thanks, but I have other plans for you".

gg gg gg gg gg gg

The rooms Madame Jacquard led them to were in the basement of the extensive mansion, sealed off from the rest of the storage area by a hidden door at the end of the hall that looked like a wall of shelves stacked with old boxes, tools, and dusty books. So the Madame was more than just a friend of Actor's, Chief realized. She was operating a full blown safe house, and probably a lucrative black market operation as well.

She apologized, laying a gentle hand on Actor's arm and Casino's. "It is payday for the Wehrmacht, so we will have a full house tonight, I'm afraid. But you will be safe and comfortable here. As I've replaced the furniture in my guest rooms upstairs, I've put the castoffs to good use."

Actor thanked her. Casino looked perturbed. No blonde pixie would warm his bed tonight.

There were three separate rooms, two on the left side of the hall, and one on the right, next to a toilet and bathroom with a massive claw-footed tub. Each room held two large beds and a mismatched assortment of tables, chairs and cabinets. Although there were no windows, and a faint mustiness clung to the air, the rooms were clean and spacious, a far cry from the stone floors and bug-infested cots he'd been sleeping on for the last week. Chief chose the wide four-poster with the canopy against the far wall in the room on the right, and stretched out across the pink and green flowered coverlet. The light scent of lavender wafted up around him.

Casino and Goniff headed for the two rooms across the hall, but Garrison pulled Actor aside in the doorway. "You're going to be Simone's new Italian bar tender tonight. See what you can find out."

"A servant, Warden?" Actor protested.

"You could masquerade as another client," Garrison mused. "But no one's going to want to talk to you when there's far more interesting companionship available. However, everyone talks to a bartender who serves good, strong drinks, right?"

Actor sighed in reconciliation at Garrison's logic, then went to claim a bed for himself until it was time to start mixing cocktails.

Turning over to face the wall, Chief wadded up the down pillow and propped it under his head, letting the calming fragrance fill his head. He could definitely get used to this. He'd not realized how bone-tired he was until he closed his eyes and the soft mattress molded to his body, draining the aching tension from his muscles.

He thought of the girl, Nico, and those dark, wary eyes. If she could eat a meal like the one they'd just had and sleep on flower-scented linens, why was she not here every night? Why did she choose the cold, unforgiving streets and a gang of homeless punks? He'd seen the answer in her eyes. He knew her. He had been her. The outcast, the unwanted, the invisible. You only began to feel safe with others like yourself, even though you knew you'd never really belong, never be totally accepted. But while he'd stolen cars, she stole Nazi secrets. She risked her life to free her country. He'd risked his freedom to enrich gangsters. He'd paid the price. But the price she'd pay was much higher.

He startled out of a doze. Garrison had spoken to him from the other bed. He turned over. "You say somethin', Warden?"

"Sorry. Nothing important. Go back to sleep."

Chief closed his eyes and quickly drifted back into sweetly scented nothingness.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

At some point, Chief had roused at the sound of quiet voices and doors opening and closing, and a small spark in the back of his mind told him Garrison and Casino were leaving to meet with the Maquis. He'd turned over, flipped his pillow to the cool side, and fallen back into a dreamless sleep. By the time he awoke again, he'd lost all track of time. In the darkness of the windowless room, he reached over to switch on the bedside lamp and looked at his watch. 8:15. He fell back against the pillow and mentally shook the grogginess from his brain. Probably 8:15 p.m.

The tense sound of Actor's voice out in the hallway instantly cleared his head. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor as the door pushed open. Actor entered, heading directly to the table at the foot of the bed. Behind him were Madame Jacquard and the girl Nico, followed by a yawning, scratching Goniff.

Actor pulled out one of the chairs and motioned for the girl to sit, and he took the opposite chair. "Now, tell me exactly what happened. If it's easier, you may speak in French."

"Non, Monsieur, I will speak English." She glanced up at Chief and Goniff.

"What's goin' on?" Goniff stifled another yawn.

"I followed your Lieutenant and the other one when they went to the butcher's shop. They did not see me, but I was worried. There are many patrols on the streets now, especially close to the curfew."

Goniff snickered. "Like itty bitty little you coulda done something if they got stopped."

"Goniff, let her finish," Actor admonished.

She frowned at Goniff and continued. "They only stayed in the shop for a little while, then they all left. I stayed back and waited for them to get several blocks away. I did not want them to see me. But when I started to leave my hiding place, a Boche patrol - maybe twelve soldiers - came and broke down the back door, and they searched the shop and broke the radio."

A cold knot formed in Chief's stomach, and his eyes met Actor's. "They ain't back yet, are they." It was a statement, not a question.

"When I saw what happened, I ran to catch them and tell them," Nico continued. "But I was too late. I saw your friends being arrested, right there on the street corner."

"Blimey..."

"And the butcher?" Actor prompted.

"No, monsieur. He must've gone in another direction."

Actor looked up at Madame Jacquard. "Do you know where they would have been taken?"

She shook her head. "I do not. It could have been several different places..."

"I followed," Nico interrupted.

"Good girl," Actor smiled, patting her hand.

"They took them to the SS building on Rue Marceau."

"I know the place," Madame Jacquard told them. "It has only temporary holding cells. They will not keep them there."

Actor sat motionless for a long moment, but Chief couldn't let the deathly silence hang in the room. He needed a plan. "So what do we do now?"

Actor stared at him, brows knitted in a thoughtful frown, then he stood. "I need to go back upstairs. If the SS has just captured a couple of Allied spies, someone is bound to want to brag about it."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

As Actor passed through the kitchen, on his way back to the bar in the reception room, he grabbed a bottle of brandy and two bottles of whiskey, so it would appear that he'd left his post simply to resupply his stock. Waiting for him, tapping fingers impatiently on the highly polished bar top, was an SS Lieutenant and his civilian companion. "Ein Whisky für mich und meinen Freund," the officer demanded.

"Immediatamente, tenente," Actor replied with his best subservient smile, as he pulled glasses from a lower shelf. He hoped that his use of Italian would persuade the two that it was safe to speak freely in his presence. He was taking a chance with this tactic, but he felt he might glean more useful information this way rather than as a friendly, inquisitive bartender.

The civilian interested him. Tall, all lanky arms and legs, with a head of thick hair the color of an autumn pumpkin, he was too young not to be in uniform. Wide-set blue eyes and a smattering of freckles gave him the look of a boy fresh off the farm. As he and the officer scanned the room, perusing the evening's offering of feminine entertainment, Actor puttered at the opposite end of the bar, and served other patrons. He attempted to tune into all the conversations buzzing around him, but in particular to the civilian and his officer friend. The young man's Eastphalian accent strongly suggested that he'd been raised somewhere near Hanover or Magdeburg. And they were celebrating. This night on the town was evidently a reward for the red-headed young man's valuable service to The Reich. They were turned with their backs to him, so he could only pick up snatches of their exchange above the general drone of the room, but he caught the phrases "Maquis filth" and "Allied spies". And accompanying a disturbingly sadistic laugh, the phrase "the Gestapo has very effective methods."

Concentrating as he was on his eavesdropping, Actor had not heard Josette approach the bar. She touched his arm lightly, and with a smile that would melt a glacier, she asked for a white wine. Actor understood what Casino saw in the petite blonde. Her shimmering hair was pinned up loosely in the back, and the strands that fell around her heart-shaped young face suggested a juvenile innocence. Her long, diaphanous white gown paired revealing with concealing in just the right balance to drive a man mad.

Actor poured a generous portion of Chenin Blanc into a stemmed glass and slid it across the counter to her. In a move uncharacteristic of a graceful nymph so comfortable in her own body, Josette fumbled the glass and dropped it on the floor, splattering the wine down the front of her dress. Her anger was immediate, all directed at Actor, calling him any number of crude synonyms for clumsy. All he could do was apologize profusely, in Italian, and rush around the bar with a rag to clean up the mess. As he stooped to sop up the puddle, she stooped down next to him, appearing to help, and whispered in his ear, "The Lieutenant at the end of the bar is SS counterintelligence."

Actor tried drying off the hem of her gown with the already soaked rag, and whispered back, "They are discussing something big that happened today. Do you think you could find out more?"

She called him a few more uncomplimentary names, denigrating his Italian heritage, then whispered, "But of course. From both of them." Her brief smile faded quickly as she stood, disgustedly kicked at the broken glass, and huffed away.

But she only went as far as the end of the bar, where she approached the Lieutenant and his friend and looped an arm through each of theirs. She made the guttural German language sound alluring as she invited them both to help her change into a dry gown. They were grinning like school boys as she led them away up the wide staircase.

gg gg gg gg gg gg


	3. Chapter 3

It had been hours. Chief usually didn't mind waiting, but now it felt like a million mad hornets were swarming inside him, trying to get out. He needed to be casing out the SS headquarters building, finding its weak spots. He needed to be stabbing a Kraut guard and stealing in a rear door to find Garrison and Casino. He needed to shoot somebody. Meanwhile, Actor was upstairs serving booze and talking, and all Chief could do was lay on the lavender-scented bed and stare up at the canopy. It was getting them nowhere. It was getting Garrison and Casino killed.

Goniff was just as itchy. He was trying to play a game of solitaire, but Chief could hear he was just randomly slapping down cards, unable to concentrate. Goniff finally tossed the stack of cards into the middle of the table and stubbed out his cigarette. "I hate this. Why are we just sittin' here?"

"Do you know where that SS building is?" Chief challenged.

"No, but..."

"That's why. I'd be out that door in a second if..." ...if he had a map. Chief bounded off his bed and over to the other one in the room, the one the Warden had slept in before he'd left. He threw all the covers aside, tossed the pillows, searched the drawers of the chest by the door, but came up empty-handed. Damn. Of course Garrison took his maps with him. Chief slammed a drawer shut in frustration.

At the sound of the outside hall door opening, the blade leapt instinctively into his hand. Goniff turned in his chair, side arm drawn. But it was Actor who entered, followed by Nico and a couple of men he didn't know. Goniff lowered his gun, but Chief kept his knife visible and ready.

Actor frowned at him but went directly to the table and spread out a map of his own on top of Goniff's card game. "Here's what we're going to do. We haven't got much time, so listen carefully..."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

The damp pre-dawn chill seeped under Chief's skin and sent a shiver up his spine. From where he stood watch on the road at the end of the bridge, he could see the dim forms of Nico and the Maquis leader's son Lucien clambering like monkeys through the ironwork below, setting their explosives. With the bridge blown, the transport carrying Garrison and Casino to Paris would have to stop. Then they'd hit it.

That was the plan, but Chief hated it. They were stretched too thin. They didn't have enough information. There were too many loose ends. And there was a big hole in it. There was a second route the Nazis could take instead, if they planned to stop in Le Mans. Despite all the information Josette and Actor had collected from the bordello patrons, they hadn't been able to pin down that one detail. So Actor, Goniff and Jacques were hedging their bets and creating a road block along that other route, and would hit the truck if it went that way. No matter what happened, they had set a time and place to meet up later. Then they'd try to come up with another plan if they had to.

He settled his dread with a deep breath and watched Nico and Lucien climb up the embankment from beneath the bridge and sprint toward him. Lucien rolled wire off the heavy spool, and Nico carried the plunger. They passed him, and he jogged after them another hundred yards up the road, where they ducked into the roadside underbrush and crouched near the hidden car. Hopefully they were far enough away from anybody who might be concerned about the noise.

With dirty, nail-bitten fingers, Nico deftly attached the wire to the terminals. "Cover your ears," she grinned, and shoved all her slight weight down onto the plunger. In response, the middle of the bridge detonated in two simultaneous explosions. Chunks of burning metal, wood and asphalt shot into the air and splashed into the river, sizzling as they hit the water.

Nico set aside the plunger with a satisfied sigh and exchanged a smile with Lucien. "C'était magnifique, n'est-ce pas?"

"Oui, c'était parfait."

Settling in for the wait, Nico hunkered back into the niche of a dying oak tree, pulled her frayed, baggy French Army jacket snuggly around herself, and from one of the deep pockets she pulled two croissants. She tore them up into three equal shares, then handed one to Chief and one to Lucien.

Chief bit into the soft bread and savored the lingering taste of real butter. These must've come from Madame Jacquard's kitchen. "Thanks," he mumbled as he chewed.

When she looked up at him, her wary eyes again seemed to bore a hole in him, as if she could see his darkest thoughts. She reached over and touched his shirt sleeve where it covered his leather sheath. "You are good with the knife?"

"Good enough."

"Can I see it?"

He released the knife smoothly into his hand, snapped it open, flipped it, and offered it to her handle first.

She studied it critically, closing and opening it, testing its sharpness and its heft. "Why a knife? A gun is more effective."

"Guns do one job, knives do another."

With a knowing nod, she handed it back to him the way he'd handed it to her, handle first. "How did you learn to use it?"

"Practice." He folded the blade and returned it to its sheath.

Her smile was sly and knowing. "On enemies?"

He returned her smile. "Well, not on friends."

"You are taking big risks for your friends." Lucien stuffed the last of his croissant in his mouth. "They must be very important to you."

"Nobody gets left behind."

"I am not sure anyone would have wasted the explosives or ammo if the big Italian had not insisted." Lucien looked to Nico for confirmation. "If it had been any of us, that is the price we pay for defying the Boche."

"You wouldn't try to get 'em out?"

Lucien brushed bread crumbs from his hands and shook his head. "Munitions are dear, Monsieur. And life is cheap. We all know the dangers. We are willing to take the risks."

"Yeah, well so am I." Chief understood the reasoning, but he couldn't accept it. The lives of Garrison and Casino were worth at least the price of the supplies needed to save them. If he had to do it alone, he would. "You two can cut out right now if you want. I'm stayin'."

"And we will stay with you, mon ami," Lucien assured him. "If your friends are that important to you, then they are important to us. And blowing up bridges and killing Nazis has its rewards, too, no?"

The conversation died as the quiet fog crept up from the river and surrounded them, and a weak, watery light leaked in from the east. A glance at his watch told him that if things went as scheduled, the truck should appear any time now. He studied the two kids sharing the hideout with him, both looking as relaxed as if they were waiting for a school bus. He would welcome their help, but he wouldn't rely on it.

The fog muffled the sound, but it was still unmistakeable. The square, grey truck with the big black and white cross painted on the side rumbled toward them down the straightaway like it was racing at Le Mans instead of transporting prisoners. As the truck got closer, it dawned on Chief that the driver couldn't see the destroyed bridge for the fog. He wasn't going to stop. He wasn't even slowing down.

Options flashed through his head. Jump into the road and flag it down? The way that truck was hauling, it would run him down before it could stop. Shoot out a tire? He had a handgun and a rifle. Even if he could make the shot, it would only send the truck into a dangerous spin. But that was still better than letting it plunge off the end of the bridge.

He steadied his rifle with his elbows on his knees, took a breath, and released it. He found the front left tire in his sights and tracked it as the truck sped by. It had traveled well past them before he felt he had a decent shot, and he squeezed the trigger. The crack of the shot and the pop of the tire were simultaneous. Metal squealed on pavement and the truck listed right. The driver overcompensated, and it swerved, tipping precariously, as it careened onto what remained of the bridge...and disappeared off the end.

Chief never heard the splash. He was already out of the undergrowth and dashing toward the river. When he reached the water's edge, the truck was fifty yards out, its roof still protruding above the surface, sinking fast in a roil of bubbles. Garrison and Casino were in the back of that truck, maybe shackled to the seats, being sucked under. There was no time to pull off his boots. He splashed in up to his knees and dove, heading out to the disappearing truck with long, hard strokes.

Just as he reached the truck's back end, Casino's dark head broke the surface. He was gasping for air, trying to spit out words. "...couldn't get him...leg's stuck...sinking..."

Chief drew in a breath, tucked and dove. He was blind, the water completely clouded with swirling silt. His head banged into metal - the truck's rear door swinging free. He grabbed it, pulling himself down and into the open compartment. Flailing around, he hit something soft and solid, and groped at it until he identified arms manacled at the wrists. Garrison - just floating there, not moving. Grabbing a pants leg, he pulled himself downward until he felt a booted ankle with the foot wedged under a twisted piece of metal. He grabbed the sharp edge that was biting into the boot leather, and bracing himself against the floor of the truck, he pulled up. And pulled again. And again.

His lungs were about to explode, his reflexes threatening to gasp for oxygen. He clamped his mouth shut, gritted his teeth, and yanked upward again. Someone else pushed in beside him. Through the muddy water he could make out Casino's dark hair, as he reached down with still manacled hands and also clutched the jagged metal. And they pulled together, as one. The slab of metal bent upward with a muffled screech, and the trapped foot came free. Chief groped upward to loop an arm across Garrison's chest and kicked for the open door.

When he reached the surface, he gasped desperately, swallowing muddy water and precious air, then pulled for the shore, struggling to keep Garrison's head above water.

On hands and knees, still choking on the water he'd swallowed, Chief dragged Garrison into the weeds on the river bank. The Warden was motionless, his face white, his lips turning blue. Chief couldn't find a pulse. Or feel a breath.

Suddenly all those long, boring mornings of Red Cross training rushed back at him, practicing with dummies and ragging on each other about mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Back then he hadn't cared if he'd done it right, and he didn't know if he'd do it right now, but he went through the practiced motions - tilting Garrison's head back, making sure his airway was clear. Then he took a deep breath, covered Garrison's mouth with his, and exhaled. Twice more he tried to force life-giving air into his unconscious commander. Nothing - Garrison lay death-like, still and pale. Frantically he pressed his clasped hands in the middle of Garrison's chest and pushed down - once, twice, again - forcing himself not to go too fast.

Casino appeared opposite him, dripping and panting, and shoved Chief's hands aside. Without a word, he replaced them with his own, still handcuffed together, and took over the steady chest compressions.

Chief refocused on the pale, lifeless face, the outside world closing in around him until it was just him and the Warden. Breathe in, exhale. Breathe in, exhale...

Time stopped. Other sounds reached him from outside his bubble - splashing and shouts - but they didn't concern him now. And there was the whisper of Nico's voice, from where she knelt at Garrison's head, her eyes closed, her hands clenched in front of her. Chief knew the words. He'd heard them often enough at the missionary school and at the Convent of St. Joan - "Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâces, le Seigneur est avec nous..." The words meant nothing to him, either in English or French, but they became the steady pulse of his world, the rhythm of his inhaling and exhaling, the cadence that kept him going, fighting off his own dizziness. Praying wasn't going to help the Warden, but it couldn't hurt.

Across from him, as if reading his mind, Casino growled, "Damn it, you stubborn sonofabitch, you never gave up on anything in your life. Don't start now."

Nico's quiet prayers continued... "Notre Père qui es aux cieux, que ton Nom soit sanctifié..." And the steady in and out of his breathing continued, mindless and automatic.

Garrison abruptly jerked upward. He gasped in a deep breath, and coughed up river water and bile. Chief quickly pulled him over onto his side to keep him from inhaling what he was throwing up. The Warden sounded like he was choking to death. But he was breathing on his own.

Relief and dizziness swamped Chief like the rising river water, and the ground beneath him tilted sideways. He leaned forward against Garrison's shoulder, resting his forehead on his crossed arms, and winced at every convulsion, as Garrison continued to vomit up the contents of his stomach and lungs. But each spasm meant he was alive.

"Chief!"

At Nico's shout, he pivoted just in time to catch the full force of the attacker coming down on him, and the impact of the blade as it bit into his shoulder. When the guy jerked the knife free and raised it again for another strike, Chief grabbed for his wrist. Recognition was instant. His nightmare came to life, the blurry face he couldn't identify now suddenly in sharp focus.

The shot echoed strangely in the fog. His attacker froze in mid-swing, his eyes wide in astonishment, as blood spurted from the hole in his chest. Then he toppled over backwards.

Chief scrambled to his knees and crawled over to the body, grabbing up a fistful of bloody shirt, but the guy was dead, taking all of his secrets with him.

Nico stood over him, the gun now hanging at her side. "It is the one who calls himself Auguste. Now he can no longer betray us. The gun is very effective, n'est-ce pas?"

gg gg gg gg gg gg

After they'd left the site of the destroyed bridge and sunken truck, they'd met up with Actor, Goniff and Jacques at the pre-planned rendezvous. There they'd hustled Garrison into Actor's vehicle and headed straight for the coast, leaving Jacques and his crew to disappear into the hills.

In this small fishing village south of Nantes, the Maquis operated an effective escape route to England, and had been awaiting for them for several days. The boat shed's inconspicuous back room stored weapons, rations, and a radio hidden under fishing nets, packing crates, and old nautical gear. And now it sheltered them, until the sub radioed that it had arrived off shore.

The day had never warmed up. What had been a suffocating, humid heat for a week had turned into a wet chill, deepened by the mists rolling in off the Bay of Biscay. Chief's clothes had never really dried, and now, as he sat on an upturned crate, keeping watch at the boat shed's doorway, the damp collar of his shirt chaffed at his neck. He absently reached up to scratch at the irritation, and the puncture wound in his left shoulder flared into a sharp pain. It was just below his collarbone - it would need stitches, but it wasn't too deep. Actor had said he was lucky the knife hadn't hit a major artery. He gingerly rolled his shoulder to ease the stiffness, and leaned back against the door frame, surveying the deserted, mist-shrouded waterfront street. Because of the weather, there hadn't been much fishing today, but the fog would be good cover when they headed out to the submarine later.

Chief couldn't get out of his head the image of the wide, startled, dead eyes of his attacker. How had Augie Schulman, the idiot who had bungled the dead drop in Paris and lead Jeanette into the hands of the Nazis, ended up in Tours collaborating with the SS, and driving the prisoner transport? Chief knew he should've killed the bastard when he'd had the chance. He wouldn't make that mistake in judgement again.

Jeanette. They'd left her with Augie in Paris after that disastrous mission. If Augie had been working for the Nazis, then where was Jeanette now? His imagination ran wild with all the possibilities, and none of them were good.

He heard the soft footfalls as Actor approached him from behind. "How is the shoulder?"

"Not bad." He gave it a shrug, flaring the sharp pain again.

"Come to the back and let me change the dressing."

"I'm good."

"You don't want it to get infected. Goniff can sit watch for a while."

Chief sighed and relented. He was tired and sore and unable to focus, so he stood and followed Actor into the cramped back room. At Actor's nod, Goniff rose without protest from his seat in the corner and headed out to take Chief's place at the front door.

Casino sat on top of an overturned dingy, his head leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed. Against the far wall, Garrison sat wrapped in several blankets in a nest of fish nets. They both looked to be asleep.

When Actor silently indicated one of the chairs at the room's sole table, Chief took a seat and let Actor pull his shirt away from the wound. It was still covered by the makeshift bandage of Actor's handkerchief taped in place. Chief stifled a wince when Actor pulled the handkerchief loose from the dried blood.

"Most of the bleeding has stopped," Actor told him as he sat in the other chair and opened up the first aid kit.

As Actor gently cleaned the wound, Chief watched Garrison's steady breathing. "How's the Warden?"

Actor glanced at their commander. "The wheezing and fever concern me, but I think he will be alright. The sooner we get home, the better."

"Are you talking about me again?" Garrison's voice was raspy but strong.

"Sorry, Warden," Actor apologized with a smile. "I thought you were asleep."

"Chief, are you alright?"

"Better than you, Warden."

Garrison tried to laugh, but it only set off a fit of coughing.

Actor applied sulfa powder to Chief's gash, then taped fresh gauze in place and pulled Chief's blood-stained shirt back over his shoulder. "There. I'll let a real doctor handle the fancy needlework."

Shifting and sitting up a little straighter, Garrison said, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's not that bad."

"I mean about Augie."

"What, 'cause he's dead? I shoulda offed him in Paris."

Garrison took a careful, shallow breath. "I asked him about Jeanette. He claimed she never left Paris."

"That's it? That's all he said?"

"I wasn't really in a position to do the interrogating." Garrison reached for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, but stopped when he realized they were too soggy to burn. He gave Actor an imploring look.

The conman smiled and shook his head. "In your condition, I don't think smoking is a good idea."

Garrison sighed and pulled the blankets up around his shoulders. "I'll have my contacts be on the lookout for her. She's smart and resourceful, Chief. She'll be okay."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Hey, Warden." Casino sat forward on top of the dingy and lit his own cigarette. "What's it like to almost die? Did you see your life flash in front of your eyes?"

Garrison smiled. "No. But I did see an angel."

"An angel?" Casino barked a laugh. "Like with wings and a halo?"

"As much of an angel as a scrappy street kid can be, I guess." His voice turned quiet. "I heard Nico's voice from someplace far away. I followed the sound and concentrated on her words. The next thing I knew, I was throwing up in Chief's lap."

The prayers. To Chief, they'd always been empty words, spoken to a powerless mythical being. But this morning they'd been what had kept him going through the dizziness and past the point where common sense told him to give up, the Warden was dead. Not the words so much as the sound, the rhythm, the music. The hope.

"Yeah, an angel with a Walther P38 and dynamite," Casino chuckled.

"We should be thankful for the angels with guns and explosives." Garrison leaned back into the bed of nets. "They've lost everything and still refuse to give up."

Actor lowered his eyes, turning his attention to organizing the first aid kit, and spoke softly. "And for the angels who operate the safe houses and keep the secrets."

Casino crushed out his cigarette on the side of the dingy. "Yeah, and the sweet little blond angels who collect those secrets..."

From a cabinet next to the dingy, the radio crackled, and emitted a static-filled series of beeps. The Warden sat up again, listening carefully, and Actor pulled a notebook from a pocket and quickly jotted down the sequence. The beeping stopped briefly, then repeated. When it finally went quiet, Actor walked over to Garrison and handed him the notebook.

Garrison smiled and pushed out of his fish net nest, standing a little shakily with Actor's help. "That's it, guys. Captain Jenkins is off the coast. Is our boat ready?"

"And waiting," Actor assured him.

Garrison headed for the radio to send their reply. "Then let's go home."


End file.
